


The Crime Scene

by wheel_pen



Series: Finn [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clones, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 17:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4633341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade has called about a murder, so Sherlock brings 5-year-old Finn along to the scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Crime Scene

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> This story has not been Britpicked. Please let me know if I get anything horribly wrong.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

“It’s very important that you behave properly.”

“I know.”

“No running, biting, throwing things, screaming, or kicking.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t touch anything. Especially don’t put anything in your mouth.”

“I won’t.”

“Because the cab can take you straight home if you don’t behave.”

Finn gazed at him, exasperated and patronizing, and Sherlock briefly wondered if that was how _he_ looked to people.

Slightly taller, of course.

The cab pulled to a stop. “Right. Let’s go.” Sherlock exited the cab, then picked Finn up and carried him towards the mass of flashing police car lights outlined with yellow caution tape. He always got impatient waiting for Finn’s shorter legs to catch up.

One of the uniformed officers must have radioed to Lestrade as he went by, because the detective met him in the parking lot before he could get inside. The expression on his face was tedious—shocked, confused, totally incapable of forming any rational thought. Sherlock huffed impatiently.

“Bloody h—l,” Lestrade finally uttered, unimaginatively.

“You said a bad word,” Finn informed him. He held out his hand and Lestrade gaped at it like he’d never seen such a thing.

“You owe him fifty p,” Sherlock clarified. “We’re trying to teach him not to swear. John swears quite a lot. I never realized that before.” This unobserved attribute troubled him somewhat—how had he overlooked it? What else had he overlooked about John?

Lestrade was mindlessly digging into his pocket and pulled out a fifty-pence coin, which he handed to the child. “Thank you,” Finn said with a charming smile, pocketing the change.

“When did _you_ get a kid?” Lestrade finally blurted, still not over it apparently.

“Seventeen days ago,” Sherlock replied briskly. “His name is Finn. This is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.”

“Hullo,” said Finn politely. “Is _Lestrade_ French? I speak French.”

“Of course you do,” Lestrade agreed, as if he expected nothing less.

Sherlock felt the introduction had lasted long enough. “You said you had a case,” he prompted.

Lestrade shook himself back to a semblance of professionalism. “And you brought your kid?!”

“Both John and Mrs. Hudson are out,” Sherlock explained matter-of-factly. “You said it was urgent.”

“Sherlock, you can’t bring a kid to a murder scene!” Lestrade insisted, rather one-dimensionally.

Slight hope rose within Sherlock. “Is it extremely gory?” he asked eagerly. “Dismemberment? Exploded head?”

Lestrade looked as if he thought such words should not even be mentioned in front of children. “No, it’s a strangulation, but—“

“Oh. Well, better get on with it anyway,” Sherlock decided, pushing past Lestrade to the entrance. “Before your forensics team tramples the place like a herd of wildebeest.”

“Wildebeest live in _Africa_ ,” Finn informed Lestrade over Sherlock’s shoulder, as the policeman followed them up the stairs.

“J---s C----t,” Lestrade sighed.

“That was bad,” Sherlock hinted to the boy.

“Mrs. Hudson said Jesus was good.”

“Lestrade was using the name in a bad way,” Sherlock expanded. “I think you deserve a whole pound for it.” Obediently the boy held out his hand, giving Lestrade an imperious look that was oh so familiar.

He handed the boy the coins. “Well where did he _come_ from?” he wanted to know. You didn’t just walk to the store and pick up a five-year-old one day—especially not one who was the spitting image of the man who carried him.

“Where do they _usually_ come from?” Sherlock shot back condescendingly.

Somehow Lestrade did not think _usual_ entered into it in this case.

They walked into the flat under investigation and Sherlock set the boy on his feet. “Don’t touch anything,” he reiterated firmly.

“You said that already,” Finn reminded him. Normally he would have been impatient at the repetition, but there were so many new things to look at in this place that he barely noticed.

“Okay, you can’t just—“ Lestrade started to protest, but Sherlock went one way and the boy another.

“Are you going to tell me anything about the case, or shall I just figure it out on my own as usual?” Sherlock remarked, striding towards the body.

Lestrade sighed and flipped open his notebook. “Marvin Kleeman, age forty-three, resident here for nine years—“

“Something _useful_ is preferred,” Sherlock interrupted, examining the man’s fingernails with his magnifying lens.

“Janitor at Archelon Financial Services,” Lestrade went on, as Sherlock hopped around the corpse. “No known vices—“ Sherlock snorted derisively. “—kept to himself, paid his rent on time, good record with his employer.” Lestrade shut the notebook. “Still, might be girlfriend problems—“

“He was killed by a paid professional,” Sherlock pronounced, whirling to the center of the room. “Five-seven or –eight, two hundred thirty pounds, male, possible Mediterranean descent.”

“ _What?!_ ” interrupted Lestrade, irritatingly.

Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail; he devoted only a small portion of his attention to verbalizing the facts he’d deduced. “Anger management issues,” he went on of the assailant. “But, retained in service for many years, very intelligent. You’re looking for his employer, someone used to criminal business dealings,” he pointed out to Lestrade. “Sent the killer here to find something, probably the financial information the victim stole from Archelon. But _did_ he find it, that’s the question,” he finished, with slight frustration.

“Okay, and how do you know all this?” Lestrade asked, when he could get a word in edgewise. He didn’t doubt its veracity.

“It was—“ Sherlock corrected himself. “It’s _not_ perfectly obvious, it took me two-point-four seconds longer than usual to reach that conclusion. Possibly because John’s not here, he has a very useful way of focusing my thoughts.” Sherlock frowned as he made this deduction, finding it far more compelling than the actual case.

“What makes you think he was looking for something?” Lestrade persisted. “The flat looks fine.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Only an unintelligent man would tear a place apart looking for something,” he said patronizingly. “An _intelligent_ man thinks first, then looks in the logical place.” Now Lestrade rolled _his_ eyes. “The killer and the victim were both intelligent. That’s why this killer was sent. But he wasn’t a detached professional, he had a stake in the outcome, emotional desire to please his employer.”

“How illogical,” Lestrade commented dryly.

“Stop speaking aloud,” Sherlock advised. “He killed the victim too soon, on accident, before he revealed the hiding place. So the killer has to think, and look for himself.”

There was a pause, and Lestrade risked speaking. “Are you done now?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock scoffed. “That’s only one room. I’ll need to see the rest.”

Suddenly there was a squawk from the bathroom and Anderson came out, pale with surprise and anger. He was leading Finn by the hood of his jacket, as though he didn’t want to touch him further. “What the h—l is this?!” Finn gazed at him judgmentally and held out his hand.

“I’ve got it,” Lestrade offered hurriedly, digging into his pocket.

“Well, what have you discovered?” Sherlock demanded abruptly.

“We don’t need _him_ here, DI,” Anderson insisted unpleasantly. “We can solve this perfectly well—“

Lestrade nodded and made a placating gesture with his hands. “Just tell him what you’ve found,” he ordered. Sherlock had already explained more about the crime than the forensics team had, all its members combined.

“I wasn’t talking to _him_ ,” Sherlock clarified snidely. He looked pointedly at the boy. “Well?”

“The bathtub’s got water in it,” Finn reported. “About that much. And it’s all scummy on top, like when I don’t let my bathwater out for days.”

“You don’t do that at home, do you?” Sherlock checked.

“No.”

“Right.” Sherlock brushed past them and barged into the bathroom.

Anderson gave Lestrade a pained look as Finn strained at the end of his leash, then simply unzipped his coat and escaped. “Right, I know, he just showed up with him, alright?” Lestrade grumbled, taking the boy’s jacket. “The vic might have stolen financial information from his employer and was trying to sell it or blackmail someone. Maybe a prominent businessman who had a criminal side to his enterprise.” He _could_ make a few deductions himself, after all. “So get on that.” Anderson huffed and left, and Lestrade turned around looking for the boy. To his horror he found him climbing up the brickwork of the fireplace, and he ran over and plucked him off. “Hey now, your, uh, dad said not to touch,” he reminded the boy.

“I’m not _touching_ ,” the boy claimed. “I’m _moving_. I’ve got to touch the floors to walk around, haven’t I? Or climb to look at something.” The stubborn expression he wore was disconcertingly familiar.

“Well, what were you trying to look at, then?” Lestrade asked him, a bit helplessly. It was one thing to be intimidated by a younger, though still adult, genius; quite another by a small child.

“That clock,” Finn said, pointing to one on the mantel, and Lestrade obligingly lifted him up for a better view, telling himself he was just keeping the boy contained and quiet. “It’s wrong.”

“Yes, we did notice that,” Lestrade assured him. “Probably hadn’t been wound in a while and ran down.”

“No, it’s _quite_ wrong,” the boy persisted. “John is teaching me to tell time with _real_ clocks, not just numbers.”

“Oh yeah?”

“The short hand is the _hour_ hand,” Finn explained, since the man clearly didn’t understand. “It’s pointing almost at the four, but not quite. So the long hand, which is the _minute_ hand, ought to be on the nine or ten. But it’s on the three. So that’s wrong.” He waited while Lestrade stared at the clock. “Shall I draw you a picture?” he offered. “It’s easier to understand with pictures.”

He sounded sincere, at least, and not snarky, so he wasn’t _totally_ mini-Sherlock then, Lestrade decided. Must be John’s influence. “Anderson! Did you get a picture of this clock?” he snapped. “Take a closer look, the hands are in the wrong places.” He moved away from the fireplace with the boy, trying to position him so he wouldn’t see the dead body, though he was a squirmy thing. “Thanks,” he told the boy, half-horrified and half-charmed. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you?” he added affectionately, thinking of his youngest.

“Yes,” he agreed matter-of-factly.

“What’s your name again?”

“It’s _Finn_ ,” he repeated. “You ought to have remembered. It has an _enn_ at the end, like _John_. Actually there are _two enns_ but you only say one. What’s your first name?”

“Greg,” Lestrade supplied. “That’s got two _gees_.”

Finn nodded. “My longer name has a _gee_ in it. It’s _Finnegan_.”

“Finnegan… Holmes?” Lestrade guessed, and the boy nodded. “You, uh, you live with your dad and John, then?” He felt a little bit bad trying to scam information from a child, but then again, Sherlock and John were always rather cagey, and Lestrade liked to know who he was dealing with.

“Yes, and Mrs. Hudson lives downstairs,” Finn informed him. “That’s all inside our house. I mustn’t go out the front or back door on my own, which is _outside_ the house. It’s a _rule_. Because there are _cars_.”

“That’s a good rule, yeah,” Lestrade encouraged. “How old are you, then?”

“John says I’m five. But Daddy says that’s only my _physical_ age,” Finn replied knowledgeably, “which is not as important as my _mental_ age, which is much higher.”

“Really, I’m sure.” Glancing around to make sure Sherlock hadn’t reappeared, Lestrade risked his biggest question. “So, where did you live before you came to live with Daddy and John?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Finn said with a frown. “It wasn’t as nice as living with Daddy and John, though there weren’t as many _rules_. John says I don’t have to think about it if I don’t want to,” he added, suddenly hesitant, and Lestrade felt like a heel.

“He’s right, you don’t,” he promised, patting his back. He could only imagine—well, no, he _couldn’t_ imagine, nor did he want to—the women Sherlock would get mixed up with—couldn’t imagine him swinging that way, but obviously he _had_ , probably as a bloody experiment or something, and naturally it wouldn’t be a nice, respectable girl, more like a serial killer or something. Probably didn’t even know the kid existed until recently—Sherlock was an arrogant p---k, arrogant enough that he wouldn’t want a piece of himself raised under sub-optimal conditions—that’s how he would likely see it, Lestrade predicted. Anyway, at least John was there to balance it out.

Though apparently not tonight.

There was a sharp intake of breath behind him and Lestrade turned to see Donovan standing there, staring at the boy with surprise rapidly coalescing into disgust. He felt something nasty was coming and tried to forestall it. “Dono—“

“So he’s reproduced, has he?” she remarked acidly. “Ought to be a law against that.”

“Not in front of the kid, alright?” Lestrade snapped. That was just common decency.

Finn was frowning and looking her up and down, and Lestrade again felt something nasty was coming, or at least it always did when Sherlock made that expression. Then the boy shrugged. “You’re right,” he said airily, turning away dismissively.

“What?” Donovan demanded in confusion.

“You’re worried your boyfriend thinks you’re fat,” Finn clarified. “He does.”

Donovan’s face contorted with rage. “Go wait outside,” Lestrade ordered her rapidly, and she stomped away muttering something about ‘little freaks.’ Then he turned to Finn and gave him a severe look. “That wasn’t very nice,” he chided.

“She was mean to me first,” Finn pointed out.

“Well that’s no excuse.”

Finn blinked at him. “It seems like a very good excuse,” he noted logically.

Okay, teaching moment, Lestrade decided. He had plenty of those at home. “Well, if we were mean to everyone who was mean to _us_ , the world would be very mean,” he tried to explain. “And that wouldn’t be very nice. Er, would it?” Well, usually he wasn’t trying to have a teaching moment in the middle of a crime scene.

“I suppose it wouldn’t,” Finn agreed slowly, thoughtfully.

“You just ask John about that when you get home,” he advised, trying to sound confident. That worked with _his_ kids, anyway.

“Yes, it sounds more like something John would say,” Finn nodded, reassured.

Sherlock appeared from the kitchen suddenly and frowned at Lestrade. “Why are you holding him? He can’t look around if you’re holding him,” he pointed out in disapproval.

“Sherlock, it’s a crime scene—“

“Please, he won’t contaminate it any more than your so-called specialists already have,” Sherlock scoffed derisively. “Besides John keeps him very clean.”

“I have to take a bath _every day_ ,” Finn complained dramatically, and Lestrade grinned despite himself.

“Brilliant observation about the bathwater, Anderson was about to drain it,” Sherlock went on briskly. “Anything else? _Do_ put him down.”

“Alright, there you go, little man,” Lestrade said fondly, setting Finn on the floor. “No running about, now.”

Sherlock gave the detective an odd look, as if he couldn’t imagine what motivated him sometimes. Then Finn tugged on his hand. “The clock’s all wrong,” he pointed out excitedly.

“Yes, I noticed that,” Sherlock said. “The gears are misaligned, probably from when the killer searched inside it.” Finn deflated. “Excellent observation, though,” Sherlock added, only slightly forced. “I’m sure the police just thought it had run down, and didn’t notice it was completely wrong.” Lestrade had to smile a little at Sherlock’s uncharacteristic attempt to cheer someone up—even if it involved insulting his own people. The boy must really be sinking in with him.

“I couldn’t look around much in here,” Finn explained, heading for the side of the room with the body.

Lestrade snagged him. “No, you can’t go over there,” he warned.

“Why?”

The detective glanced at Sherlock, who appeared to be staring down a bookcase and thus was no help. “Er, because that fellow’s asleep, and you don’t want to wake him up,” he tried.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock corrected abruptly. “He’s not asleep, he’s dead. Please try to avoid silly euphemisms, Lestrade.”

“Are we going to dissect him, like we did the bat?” Finn wanted to know. “I don’t think he’ll fit on our kitchen table.”

“No, other people get to dissect him,” Sherlock clarified. “But later we’ll go to the morgue and practice on humans.”

“Okay!”

They both sounded way too excited about this prospect and Lestrade shuddered a little. “It’s just _science_ , Lestrade,” Sherlock reminded him patronizingly. “Human anatomy. Eminently practical. There are three items of significance in the kitchen,” he added to Finn. “Go find them.” The boy trotted away and Sherlock flopped down to peer under the couch.

“You know, my youngest is six,” Lestrade mentioned.

“Fascinating,” Sherlock muttered sarcastically.

Lestrade really didn’t know why he bothered sometimes. “I _mean_ , if you want to get together,” he spelled out. “So they can play.”

“What age is your oldest?” Sherlock asked, which Lestrade took as a good sign since he half-expected a rude brush-off.

“Eleven.”

“That’s more his intellectual equal,” Sherlock judged, and Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Bag,” Sherlock ordered, and Lestrade handed him one, watching as he stretched his arm deep under the couch.

“You find something?”

“ _Obviously_. Ask John,” he added, and Lestrade blinked. “John handles all of Finn’s socialization opportunities.”

“Very wise decision,” Lestrade agreed. He made a note to contact the doctor later. After checking with his wife first, who might think he was mental given the complaints he’d lodged about Sherlock to her. “What did you find?”

Sherlock sat up and held out the object inside the plastic bag—it looked like a small, colored block of wood, but with extra cubes and steps sticking out from different sides. Lestrade didn’t know what it was and he didn’t think Sherlock did either, or he would’ve said instead of just frowning at it.

There was a noise from the kitchen and Finn scrambled out, followed by a glaring Anderson. “He was getting into the cupboards!” the police officer complained, sounding—Lestrade had to admit—slightly petulant.

“I was looking for clues!” Finn shot back, from the safety of his father’s arms.

“Feel free to ignore lesser beings,” Sherlock allowed, sitting him on his lap. “What did you find?”

“There was that paper taped underneath a chair,” Finn pointed out immediately.

“Yes, very good.”

“Wait, what paper?” interrupted Lestrade. “Which chair?”

“At the table,” Finn explained. “The one on the—“ He waggled his left hand.

“Left,” Sherlock supplied. “Don’t you know that?”

“It’s confusing,” the boy claimed.

Lestrade sent Anderson back to look for the chair. “What’s this paper? Is it what the killer was looking for?”

“No,” Sherlock denied. “It’s nothing to do with _this_ case, actually. But I thought you’d be interested in it.”

Anderson came back with a square paper envelope, containing some folded diagrams Lestrade couldn’t make sense of. “Who thinks to look under a _chair_ , anyway?” he grumbled.

“Intelligent people,” Sherlock shot back, before adding dryly, “Also those under three feet tall. What else?” He looked at Finn expectantly.

“The letter opener with the little green bits on it.”

“Yes, exactly. You’ll want to bag that, Lestrade.” The detective sighed and ordered it done. “And?”

“The raspberry jam on the floor,” Finn described.

Sherlock frowned. “That’s not significant,” he judged, disapproving.

“But I _like_ raspberry jam, and I’m hungry!” Finn’s voice came perilously close to a whine that Lestrade recognized from his own children—it was surprisingly humanizing.

“You didn’t eat it, did you?” Sherlock asked with mild alarm.

“No, you said not to touch,” Finn reminded him. “And John said not to eat off the floor.”

“Definitely not at crime scenes,” Sherlock reiterated, pulling a bag from his coat pocket. “Here’s your crisps. Eat if you must.”

“Thanks!”

He’d thought ahead to bring food for the boy, which Lestrade was impressed by, considering Sherlock didn’t think ahead enough to eat for _himself_. “Sherlock, what _is_ this?” the detective was finally forced to ask of the diagrams.

“No idea,” Sherlock freely admitted, finding it uninteresting. “But it was taped to the underside of a chair in the apartment of a man who’s just been murdered for the information he stole, so I imagine it’s significant to someone.”

“Well how do you know it’s not what the killer was looking for, and didn’t find?” Lestrade pressed.

Sherlock’s gestures of impatience and frustration were somewhat at odds with the small boy sitting in his lap, eating crisps with gusto. “Because I _told_ you, the killer is intelligent, he found that and knew at a glance that it wasn’t what he was looking for,” he explained, painfully. “So the information he wanted is not something that can be contained on a few pieces of paper. Single-minded pursuit, knew returning with the wrong thing wouldn’t help him. Did you find the macaroni noodle in the sink?” he asked Finn briskly.

The boy shook his head. “I couldn’t see into the sink.”

“Well next time climb up on the counter,” Sherlock advised.

“There’s a dried noodle in a pot in the cupboard,” Finn added hopefully.

“Really? Oh, well, that explains it. Well done. Don’t get crumbs on me.” Finn beamed at the praise and brushed some crumbs off Sherlock’s shirt.

“Are we about done with this nonsense?” Anderson complained. “Are we really looking for some other random valuable thing that _he_ says _might_ be here?”

“What do you make of _this_?” Sherlock asked by way of response, tossing him the block of wood in the bag.

“It’s a block of wood,” Anderson scoffed dismissively. “We’ve been finding them all over the room, because we _do_ find things without _you_ , you know. Some kind of broken knickknack, I expect.”

“Oh, I know what that is,” Finn said suddenly. Everyone turned to look at him. “It’s from a puzzle.”

“A _puzzle_?” Sherlock stood the boy up quickly, crisps and crumbs dropping everywhere. “Give him some more pieces.” Anderson did so reluctantly, when Lestrade gave him a look. “How does it go?”

Finn stood at the coffee table, the adults forced to kneel or crouch around him. “Well, if this piece goes _here_ ,” he began, setting one block down with a certain orientation, “then this one goes here, and this one over here.” He held them in mid-air, not having enough pieces to connect them.

Sherlock’s eyes scanned the scene rapidly. “Anderson, I knew a five-year-old would be smarter than you, but I never thought I’d actually see proof,” he just had to say.

Finn went on before Anderson could reply. “It makes a square, only filled out,” he tried to describe.

“Three-dimensional. A cube,” Sherlock translated, brain processing at high speed.

“But it’s hollow inside,” Finn continued, “and sometimes there was a biscuit inside! If I could open it right.”

Sherlock leaped to his feet. “Brilliant! Brilliant, of course!” He started pacing rapidly, punctuated by random jumps in the air. Finn took the opportunity to jump around, too, which was absolutely adorable if you ignored the dead body in the background. “Genius! Too bad he’s dead. And the other one too, probably. But still, _inspired_. Well done.” He stopped to pat Finn’s head, including him in the compliments.

His grin was huge. “Shall I put it together?” he offered eagerly.

“Yes, put it together,” Sherlock ordered.

“Hang on!” Lestrade interrupted. “He can’t touch the pieces, they haven’t been checked for evidence yet.”

Sherlock growled a little in frustration but conceded this point—not because he felt it really had merit, but because he knew how stubborn the police could be when it came to their forensics and sacred ‘chain of evidence.’ “Fine, I’ll do it,” he huffed.

“Same problem.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Bring me all the pieces, and show me where you found them!” he commanded. With some prompting of his team from Lestrade, this was done. “There are two missing,” Sherlock announced, looking at the assembled pile of wooden blocks in plastic bags. “You’ll find one under the dresser and one under the bed.”

“How did you know that?” Lestrade asked in amazement, when the pieces were found where he predicted.

“Because that’s where they would be if the killer opened the puzzle box on this table, then swept all the pieces off it in anger,” Sherlock told him, clearly exasperated at his slowness.

Lestrade didn’t let this bother him. “And why would he do that?”

“Because what he was looking for was _not_ inside,” Sherlock replied sharply. “Now everyone be quiet and let me think! Anderson--!” Lestrade jerked his head and the man stomped away to another room. Everyone who was allowed to remain stayed very still as Sherlock sat on the couch in his ‘thinking’ pose, legs drawn up, chin resting on his fingertips, staring at the puzzle pieces. Even Finn knew to sit without fidgeting.

Inside Sherlock’s mind, the wooden blocks tumbled and spun, fitting together, bouncing apart, assembling into groups that were almost right, but not quite, then exploding again to allow another iteration. Suddenly they all melded together into a perfect cube, but only for an instant; Sherlock immediately sliced the picture in half in his mind and estimated the size of the hollow inside—not much larger than a biscuit, in fact.

Straightening up—with no warning, those watching him would have said—Sherlock grabbed the pieces he knew touched the hollow space most closely and examined the appropriate surfaces under a strong light with his magnifying lens. “Thumb drive,” he announced. “That’s what we’re looking for. Impression on the wood,” he snapped when Lestrade opened his mouth. “It _was_ hidden in the cube, quite recently, but the victim moved it, probably knew the killer was coming, knew he would look there, tried to put it someplace he wouldn’t think to look—“

“A thumb drive could be anywhere,” Lestrade protested. “ _If_ the killer didn’t find it already!”

“He didn’t,” Sherlock stated with certainty. He whirled around and pointed at Finn. “Where would you hide something about this big?”

“The fireplace, in the wood,” Finn suggested readily, and Sherlock dove for it.

“Too big a risk, it could get burned up—“ Lestrade objected.

“It’s summer,” Sherlock and Finn pointed out at the same time. Sherlock heaved away a half-burned log of wood and crowed with triumph. There, hidden between two logs, was a thumb drive wrapped in plastic.

“Well, bugger me,” Lestrade exclaimed.

“Is that a bad word?” Finn wanted to know.

“Hard to tell, ask John later,” Sherlock dismissed, riding high on the wave of deduction. He scooped the boy up to swing him around energetically.

“That’s not what I thought a _thumb drive_ would look like,” Finn admitted, after whooping with excitement.

“Yes, I can see how that would be disappointing,” Sherlock agreed, as the object was carefully photographed and collected.

“Okay, okay, brilliant as usual,” Lestrade allowed, putting a damper on them, “but we still don’t actually know who killed this bloke!”

“Argh!” Sherlock groaned. “Lestrade, that is pathetic, even for _you_. Check the information on the drive and see whose activities it exposes. Also take note of any bodies found since the murder took place, or within the next twenty-four hours, that match the description I gave you of the killer. You do _remember_ the description, don’t you?” he accused skeptically.

“I _do_ , actually,” Lestrade shot back. “Male, Mediterranean, two hundred thirty pounds, five-seven or –eight,” he read from his notebook. “Why do you think he’ll be dead?”

“Because he didn’t bring back the thumb drive!” Sherlock practically shouted. “His employer’s loyalty only goes so far. He didn’t bring back the damaging information and he accidentally killed the only person who knew where it was! And with the police crawling all over the place, there’s been no chance to send anyone _else_ to look. Dead for sure,” Sherlock affirmed carelessly. “Or he’s made a run for it, but that seems less likely. Anyway his employer will hunt him down. He may be tortured first, look for a corpse missing fingers, his nose, maybe his—“

“Sherlock!” Lestrade interrupted, gesturing to Finn, who rocked back and forth by the fireplace.

“Well, you get the point,” Sherlock suggested, in a rare moment of discretion.

“Yes.”

Finn tugged on his hand. “Daddy, are we done?” he asked. “Can we go eat now? I’m hungry!”

“How can you be hungry?” Sherlock demanded. “You just helped solve a murder! That and the crisps should tide you over for at least two days.” Lestrade sighed loudly in the background but did not bother to correct Sherlock, since he knew John would be more sensible once they got home.

“Well, can I have an ice cream, at least?” Finn wheedled.

“If you must,” Sherlock conceded. “John is always saying you need to consume more milk. Ah, speaking of which—“ He pulled out his ringing phone. “Hello, John!” he answered victoriously. “You should—“ He paused as John cut him off. “Dalgren Street, near Whitehead,” he replied, describing their location. “Do you want—Well, yes, of course he’s here,” he added in exasperation. “You told me not to leave him home alone. We’re going to have an ice cream to celebrate solving a murder! Lestrade called and—“ He was interrupted again and started to frown. “Yes, but—Well, Mrs.—said it was—“ Sherlock held the phone slightly away from his ear as John’s volume increased. Lestrade smirked and shook his head. “He wants to talk to you,” Sherlock said, handing the phone to Finn.

“Hello, John!” the boy said cheerfully. “Yes, I’m alright. Is ‘bugger’ a bad word?” He listened to the answer, then held out his hand to Lestrade, who sighed and paid up. “Well, I didn’t _know_. Police officers swear quite a lot! And I knew it was a puzzle square and that the thumb was in the fireplace!”

“Thumb _drive_ ,” Sherlock corrected loudly, for John’s benefit. Even _he_ knew a child shouldn’t be hunting for actual thumbs. At least, he knew _John_ would think that.

“Daddy _said_ I could have an ice cream,” Finn added into the phone, dangerously.

Sherlock snatched the phone away from him. “Don’t talk to John like that,” he ordered. “You _know_ he gets final say.” Finn began to pout, impressively. “Yes, well, he’s sulking now, so good—Oh.” He got Finn’s attention. “John says you can have an ice cream from Mr. Chatterjee,” he conveyed, and the boy whooped gleefully. “Yes, he’s happy now. Are they supposed to change their minds so fast? Oh, but John, you should have seen him, he was absolutely brilliant—“ He winced. “Mmm, yes, okay, we’re done, so—Right, on our way home. Okay.” The call ended and he dropped the phone back into his pocket as though it was slightly radioactive.

Lestrade couldn’t help rubbing it in a bit, in a friendly way. “’Fraid you’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight, mate,” he joked.

“Yes, well, I often sleep on the couch,” Sherlock admitted.

“I’m not surprised.”

“Put your coat on,” Sherlock encouraged Finn. “Don’t be so slow. John said this was A Bit Not Good, so—“ The boy’s eyes widened in alarm. “Yes, exactly. So come on.”

Lestrade watched them leave, going hand in hand down the stairs. One Sherlock Holmes he could put up with—barely—but _two_ , or rather, one and a half, might be pushing it. Though, per usual, they did manage to _almost_ solve the case—Lestrade did not count the job done until he at least knew the murderer’s name. He had a feeling John would put a stop to any future crime scene appearances, though.


End file.
